Saturday, July 03, 2004
Service: * * * *
Food: * * * * 1/2
Ambience: * * * *
Babe Count: * * * * *
Ian Henderson, you're the best! You rock, you fine musician fellow, you!
You know why Ian rocks? It's because of his friends.
He's invited me to supper at a buddy of his. His sms to me read, "Supper tonight in Seapoint. Assorted babeage."
Holy moly. He understated. This is not ASSORTED babeage. This is PRIME babeage. This is the whole nine yards.
It's me, Ian, Ian's girlfriend Anneke, and four single, unmarried, available... morsels, delicacies. Ayeeeeeeeeeee!!!
On my right is Chantal, an architect. She's going to be going to Australia in a month or two, to be with a boy she met while travelling. Lucky him! But in the interim, as far as I can tell, she's living in the here and now.
Sitting next to her is Heather, a homeopath, living in Kalk Bay. Fairly quiet, dazzling. Delicious, eat-me-now eyes.
Next to Heather is Fotini, a Greek mega-goddess. This chick is sex on turbo charged pogo stick. Angular face, carved beauty. Lean, muscled. A kite surfer. And studying homeopathy.
And then there's Mariane, curly blonde hair, a satin sarong wrapped casually over her eligible hips, unfortunately marred by the fact that its winter in Cape Town, meaning she's wearing jeans under the sarong instead of just a g-string or nothing. She's also a homeopath, practising in Paarl.
Ian's girlfriend is a lawyer, and she's got long, straight blonde hair, and she's a total slinky being too.
And the conversation is hot.
We're talking about sex, and Ian and I are doing our best to be sincere communicators of the male experience. What we're really doing is a propaganda job, selling the idea that we're simply the most astounding male beings they've ever encountered. And of course, I'm drawing whoever I can, and taking phone numbers and email addresses as a pretext for contacting them.
Chantal looks at my sketch of Heather, and asks for a turn. Seeing as she's an architect and all, I hand over the palmtop, and show her how to use the drawing software. She pumps out a quick portrait of me, and exclaims that she wants a palmtop like mine. But she's saving as much as she can for Australia, so she probably won't be buying one. But hey... if I can persuade her to buy a palmtop, maybe she won't go to Australia, and then she'll ditch the thug she's going to meet, and maybe I'll stand a chance?